


“Marked”  |  Part V  (“Paranoia”)

by goodgirlwhoshopeful



Series: Marked [5]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), CHRISTIE Agatha - Works
Genre: :D, ATTWN, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Hope you love the plot twist, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Thoughts, alternative ending, philip x vera, this is where it becomes a bit more non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlwhoshopeful/pseuds/goodgirlwhoshopeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Y’think I’m smiling because I wouldn’t do such inhuman things to you?” he taunted silkily, with a smile that could have been misconstrued as harmless…if his eyes had no been so stark with intent.<br/>“You think those stockings’d save you?”He admonished her slowly with an air of such arrogance that she felt breathless with both outrage and arousal, firing her up suddenly with desire to beat him at his own game... </p>
<p>Time to don the devil’s armour, Vera.  </p>
<p>The blood began seeping from a single red spot on his bicep. She felt dizzy at the sight of it, knowing it had been her doing... “What was that for?! I’m not the one who’s going to hurt ya’, woman!”</p>
<p>With a wistful smile, she admired him one last time. “I believe you." In the corner of her eye, the ghost of Cyril beckoned her from the break of the surf. “But perhaps you should have.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Soulmate-Identifying Marks AU in canon with the BBC's 2015 adaptation.<br/>(Split into parts for easy reading / to allow feedback on sections).</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Marked”  |  Part V  (“Paranoia”)

**Author's Note:**

> Massive hugs to my BEST betas @evennstars and @bruhcewaynes for being my cheerleaders with this beast of a chapter… We decided it simply could not be cut down. It would break the flow… so here! Have three chapters for the price of one - even if it takes you 3 separate sittings to finish it!  
> I personally love long chapters, so I hope you do too.......

V  
  
_"Paranoia"_

* * *

**V. E. Claythorne**

 

It had been Armstrong’s idea to get heavily intoxicated on Marston’s cocaine and as much of Mr. Owen’s brandy as humanly possible, but they had _all_ wholeheartedly agreed, thankful to finally have a distraction from the crushing tension that surrounded them. 

They ended up laughing about nothing and talking about everything, even replaying the record a few dozen times, simply to stand and scream ‘guilty’ at the top of their lungs when each of their names were called. 

It was the first time Vera saw Philip Lombard grin, all teeth and eyes shining like a cat, as Blore told stories of some of his most ridiculous regular cell occupiers ‘down the nick’. The Irishman’s laugh was surprisingly warm as it rumbled from a depth in his chest that sent a shiver through her frame. It impulsively triggered her own laughter, which was a wonderful surprise. She could not _remember_ the last time she had laughed, never mind _so_ exuberantly that her sides burned and her cheeks ached. 

While Armstrong ranted nonsensically at Blore’s ear, his mind evidently chasing rabid, incoherent thoughts with the effects of Marston’s cocaine – “Bodies! _Bodies!_ Bones! _Blood! Skulls!_ This – _this_ – _this_ – _endless_ … _parade_ of shattered – shattered _meat!” –_ Vera had poised herself with her feet on the table. Her shoes were long gone, abandoned in her bedroom during her emotional weak point, allowing her to happily wriggle her toes in her stockings against the tablecloth. Philip was beside her and, since she was already considerably intoxicated, she found herself holding out her glass to him as she looked arrogantly the other way, imagining herself as a divine ancient ruler endowed in jewels and precious pearls; a queen in the vain of Cleopatra of Ancient Egypt, perhaps, being waited on by a beautiful manservant whom would serve her every pleasure. 

Philip filled her drink subserviently, no doubt eager to get her drunk, but it made her crack a smile that soon morphed into a cackle at his expense. As if he thought it would be that _easy!_ Swaying to the jazzy saxophone of the record as it played, she rotated her hand whimsically at the wrist to the music and enjoyed the sight of him raising his eyebrows at her mirth. 

“Are ya’ laughing at _me_ , Miss Claythorne?” 

His question was a low, enticing enquiry, despite the volume of the music and Armstrong’s shouting, his eyes dancing with knowing and amusement as he leant against the table in front of her. His eyes followed the lines of her long legs, from the toes on the table beside him up to the thighs she hid beneath her skirt.

“You can be assured of it, Mr. Lombard.” Her tone was matter of fact with a false nonchalance that seemed to make him grin. With his lowered inhibitions, he smiled with ease and seemed pleased by her attempts to seem disinterested, which was ever intriguing, adding yet another layer to a man already wrapped up in a cacophony of mystery. Slowly, the hand he rested on the table top moved, feathering the outline of the arch of her foot. She rose her gaze, but found the other two men far too preoccupied to notice, so allowed herself to enjoy the minuscule sparks that seemed to fire through her nerves at the ghostly touch through her stockings. 

“Y’ve caused quite a stir with these stockings, Miss Vera _,_ ” he said as lowly as he could over the noise, his eyes shining with a renewed relaxed confidence as he took a swig from the brandy bottle. He then began to chortle to himself, enough to make him close his eyes and shake his head. She traced the lines of his lithe frame with her gaze, his blue shirt unbuttoned by three holes at the collar, just enough to reveal traces of the dark hair she knew was hidden beneath. 

She cocked her head in enquiry. “What about you? Are you laughing at _me… Philip?”_

She said his name deliberately, having already guessed the effect it would have on him. She watched his eyes softened by liquor suddenly harden, shining like flint, almost menacingly. She knew that it was: the animal in him had awoken. 

“Think of the worst thing a man would do, for money…” He simpered, shaking his head. “For you, that shouldn’t be too difficult, o’course.” Vera didn’t flinch at such a reminder of her sins this time, or the way his tone was clearly a jibe – not with the amount of alcohol in her system. 

No – _this time,_ she raised her eyebrows at him, wanting to say, ‘ _So? What of it?’_ After all, he _was_ right. 

He leant forward toward her and Vera found she did the same, shifting like a magnet with his every move. As much as she hated to admit it, she was enthralled by him. “That, _Vera_ ,” he continued, rolling her name sinfully on his tongue (and making her want to close the two foot gap between them and ravage him, right on Mr. Owen’s mahogany dining table). “That is what I do.” 

Rolling her foot as though to stretch it, she let her toe caress the outside of his thigh, a movement so small it could easily appear to have been an accident, if it were noticed at all, but Vera knew by the way his knuckles turned white around the brandy bottle that he _knew_ it wasn’t. Abruptly, he pushed himself off the edge of the table and closed the gap between them, coming to stand before her, slightly to one side – a conscious choice to minimise suspicion from the two bystanders in the room. To them, it no doubt looked like he was simply speaking to her close enough to be heard over the record. 

At such closeness, she could see such intimate details of his face and was able to admire them in all their glory: the freckles on his cheeks, faint beneath the olive hint of his tan; the shadow of the stubble across his jaw; the length of his black lashes and strength of his thick, dark brows; the glint of teeth as he smiled, touching the tip of his canine tooth with the tip of his tongue. Most distractingly, a single strand of hair fell forward over his forehead and ghosted his eye, rebelling against his obvious attempts to tame it with Brylcreem, and her fingers itched to push it back. 

“Y’think I’m smiling because I _wouldn’t_ do such inhuman things to you?” he taunted silkily, with a smile that could have been misconstrued as harmless…if his eyes had no been so stark with intent. 

As a young child, Vera had always had a love for the local park swing-set. She could clearly recall sailing through the air with an element of recklessness that none of the other children dare attempt. She would propel herself higher and higher, travelling with such velocity through the air that, just for the briefest of  moments, her stomach would flip sickeningly, as she panicked that, perhaps, _this time,_ she pushed it too far; perhaps, _this_ time, the swing chains would snag and send her rocketing to the ground. 

That, _perhaps_ , maybe this time, her recklessness would get the better of her.

At Philip’s candid choice of words and the sinister edge to his unnervingly melodic lilt, Vera felt her stomach flip much the same way as it had all those years ago, caught momentarily over the precipice between safety, recklessness and peril. 

This was not a sensation of fear as it should have been, but the thrill of what she may discover, should she cross the void; the thrill that she _might_ just swing higher than ever before…and still come out the other side to swing another day. 

He took her silence as an statement of doubt as he huffed out a single chuckle and bit his lip, as though about to tell the punchline of a joke. Vera felt her heart drum in her ears. “I’m smiling because _I would.”_ His green eyes pinned her to her seat momentarily. “You think those stockings’d save you?” His admonished her slowly with an air of such arrogance that she felt breathless with both outrage and arousal, firing her up suddenly with desire to beat him at his own game. _Time to don the devil’s armour, Vera._  

Leaning forward, she let the curve of her breast brush his chest as she stood and leant over to the table, motioning for the tin of Marston’s powder from the others. Blore slid it across the tablecloth without question, still distractedly receiving the onslaught of Armstrong’s impenetrable garbled monologue. 

Taking a vigorous sniff of the cocaine, Vera felt the bitter taste of it instantly in the back of her throat. Snatching the bottle, she swallowing it down with the welcome burn of brandy. Turning back to the devil himself, she gave him her best smile. “Oh, no, _Philip_ ,” she said. “I’m hoping they _won’t_.” 

She then lit her cigarette by the nearest candle and began to dance around alone in the open space of the room, knowing full-well Philip was watching her. As it transpired, all the men were distracted by her choice to dance on her own, which highly tickled her, since it took them just a few seconds to join in. Philip stood before her and gave an extravagant bow and she pretended to be disinterested, picking her nails and turning up her nose in response. 

“Oh, _I don’t know_ – My dance card is pretty full tonight, kind sir.”

“Y’really are full of _shit_ , Miss Claythorne,” he countered humorously, his face painted with his most irresistible of smirks. In the most typical Philip Lombard of ways, he took her body into his arms anyway. A sensation resembling _relief_ coursed through her at the contact, at finally being able to feel the heat of his skin beneath her fingers, even if it was through the boundary of his shirt. The smile on his face took her breath as his hands felt as though they were branding her skin through her blouse. 

 

With each bottle of alcohol consumed, the four spiralled into behaviour that could only be described as childlike. Blore began impersonating animals, first a rabid werewolf with bottle lids for eyes, making fun of Armstrong’s garbled rant about bones and noise; then, he became a bull, charging at the rest of them and pretending to gouge their insides. For some unknown reason, they all found this inexplicably funny, howling with laughter until they had to brace themselves on the furniture to catch their breath. As they chased through the hallway like children playing ‘tag', Philip suddenly had a red cushion in his hand and held it in front of the charging policeman, egging him to charge into it like a bull would to a flag. Making horns on his head with his fingers, Blore did just that, but fell forward on his drunken feet and went headfirst into the dinner gong, sending the sound of its crash bouncing off the tiles and bare walls. 

At the sight, Vera laughed so hard she cried, noting that Philip did, too. Leaning against his side, she braced herself on his shoulder for support, before sinking to the cold tiled floor in hysterics. Drunkenly, Philip stumbled over to her and grasped her shoulders, attempting to lift her up again, only to fall forward and into her, his face coming to rest against the back of her neck. She moved away instantly, knowing that if she hadn’t, she would not be able to contain herself any longer, no matter whether Blore and Armstrong were present or not. 

They waltzed around the dining room with clumsy limbs and cackling mouths until the record ended. Afterward, a much more sultry, smooth record was chosen, purely because it was next in the pile, and suddenly dancing with Philip felt… _different_ somehow. Suddenly, Philip _held_ her rather than touched her, the drowsy nature of alcohol meaning that she leant her face against his warm, solid shoulder with the majority of her weight. His large hand remained respectfully at the curve of her waist as they slowly swayed and rotated, his breath a tortuous distraction against the crown of her head. He was so _warm,_ she thought, unable to formulate many more thoughts as the brandy subdued her mind. She wanted to crawl up inside him and stay there, he felt so warm! His open mouth hovered against her hairline as they danced, as though he might have planted a kiss there, before nuzzling his forehead against her own. 

This was the first time Vera Claythorne became aware that Philip Lombard was capable of any form of tenderness. The tiny sober voice within her reminded her that it could easily be a ruse; he could easily be playing her for a fool, giving her what she so obviously craved in exchange for her role as his ally, whom he might later drop once he survived.

He so _easily_ could… and yet… as Philip Lombard held her in his arms, she was struck by how _safe_ she felt. Gone were any thoughts of the fact he was a self-professed killer, or any thoughts of whomever it was out there, plotting to kill them all. 

Was there logic to it? _No_ … but Vera was beginning to think such a thing did not exist. 

How _could_ it when they lived in a world where nature gave people Marks of their skin of a supposed love to end all their lovers…or the last words of their existence? 

“You stick with me, Vera,” he whispered in her ear as they waltzed on the spot, his voice as sure as his hold. “Death is for people like them – not for us.”

His choice of the word ‘ _us’_ stuck with her afterward. It seemed so _unlike_ him to use plurals, to include others in his planning and his thoughts, considering his arrogant nature. 

No, there seemed little logic in the word, she thought decisively as they made their way to bed, already feeling worse for wear as she felt the arrival of what could only be the cocaine come-down. _It was much more_ feral _, much more powerful than that._ As they all said goodnight, lingering at their respective bedroom doors, her fixated gaze silently beckoned to Philip words that she could see, despite no verbal communication, he already knew. 

Nature had a way like that.

* * *

**P. Lombard**

 

He had never said but a week ago, not five minutes after he had taken Mr. Owen’s money from that cockney sleaze-ball in Soho, Issac Morris, Philip had fucked the man’s secretary in an empty office down the corridor. _What was her name?_ He stood for a moment to consider and scan through his memory. _Ah yes – Audrey._

 

_The musk of her filled his senses. He hadn’t intended for this to happen – he had places to be today – but somehow, here he was, balls deep inside a redheaded woman he met but ten minutes before and he wasn’t sure he even knew_ why. _She moaned breathlessly, almost silently, in his ear and bit his earlobe as her most intimate muscles tightened around him._

_Ah, yes, he thought to himself as he struggled to catch his breath._ That _was why._

_He groaned aloud, not caring if the sleaze-ball down the corridor heard him. The man was a coward, by all appearances, and he knew Philip killed for a living, since he had just employed him on his employers behalf. He must have been able to guess what he was capable of._

_“Do you do this to every secretary you meet?”_

_In response to her panted question, he had grinned into her neck and thrust harder, pulling her head back against his shoulder roughly by a handful of her auburn ringlets. “One whose employer pays me the kind of money yours just did?” Harshly, he abruptly pressed her again the desk in front of them, face first against the cool, solid wood. “You_ fucking _bet.”_

 

Their liaison had happened so quickly, he hadn’t had chance to undress and neither had she, but he liked it like that. He thrived on the power that ballooned within his chest at the sight of a fragile woman, disheveled but still partially clothed beneath him. Somehow, it was more erotic than any nakedness could ever be, perhaps because it left such a trail of its wake; hair mussed, ties and blouses askew, underwear pushed to one side. It left him feeling ten feet tall. _Pretty little Audrey._ She had been good, from what he remembered, though hardly something to write home about, as they say. (It may have been but a week or so ago, but it now felt like an entire lifetime). That being said, he would soon learn she was nothing in comparison to one Miss Vera Elizabeth Claythorne. 

He wasn’t sure why he had said what he said, the _‘Stick with me, Vera’_ crap. He had _meant_ it, too, which was equally surprising. He wanted to help her out of here, as much as he wanted to get out for his _own_ sake. The more he thought about it, the more he realised he quite liked the idea of prolonged periods of time in Miss Claythorne’s company. After all, she knew him for what he was and she still wanted him, if not wanting him all the _more_. Time would tell, but something told him there was a reason they had been thrust together by the hands of fate.

Having bid goodnight to the three other living souls that remained with him on Soldier Island, Philip found himself leaning against his bedroom door as he closed it behind him. He could feel himself begin to sober as the effects of Mr. Owen’s brandy began to dissipate. However, what did not subside was his pulsing desire to charge from his room and break down the door to get to Vera. He had seen the look she had given him, softly illuminated by her candlelight, beckoning him to come to her. It had spoken straight to him groin and made him heart leap, agitatedly. 

_God_ , he wanted her – so much that memories of his previous sexual liaisons, in particular his most recent with Little Miss Audrey in Soho, faded into insignificance. 

There were a horde of reasons as to why he should not take the step, he knew that; Vera was hyperemotional, _erratic_ , obviously wracked with guilt and sorrow for the one life she had taken and yet… and _yet_ , he wanted her still! Not just for her body, either! He attempted to place a metaphorical finger on why this was, _how_ it was that this came to be, but found he could not. For the first time, the voice of his instinct was almost drowned by the one and only pull of a kindred spirit… and who was he to deny himself that, when it meant sex _and_ an ally to help him get off this god-forsaken island?

With each step he took from his room, his footing utterly silent from years of practice, he knew he was making a wise choice, if a self-indulgent one, but sometimes a man could afford to indulge…could he not?

He turned the handle of her bedroom door and felt his confidence soar at the realisation she had not locked it. 

As he let himself in, he found her perched against the foot of her bed, waiting for him. With a care, he moved silently into the room, never once lowering his eyes from hers. She eased toward him and he felt his pulse jump at possibility of finally, _finally_ having the contact he so _desperately_ craved. She passed him though and locked the door, during which Philip rotated his head with the insistent stare of an owl, never wanting to take his eyes off her. He didn’t care if she noticed. They were _far_ past keeping up appearances. 

Rotating on her heel, she then leant against the wood, just as he had done, and gazed at him expectantly. He found he could barely breathe, let alone speak, as the connection surrounding them hummed and suddenly felt fragile, as though a single sound would fracture it. 

He crowded her against the door and allowed himself to bask in the sensation of her rapid breath brushing his face. Still, he moved closer, so close that his eyes almost crossed as their unbroken eye-contact continued. Both were challenging the other to take the leap, and both were cautious to do so. The air around them hummed like the static storm that raged on outside. 

Philip found himself coming to rest his lips against hers in a kiss that barely was, as he suddenly seemed to possess the prudent, fleeting characteristics of a prepubescent virgin. In such actions he probably surprised _himself_ more than Vera, but it was erratic behaviour that left him feeling cautious. He couldn’t afford to send her running, after all. This was his chance to secure his ally…and to finally get what he’d fantasied about since he had set eyes on her.

Both sets of hands remained by their sides as their lips barely brushed, the sound of the kiss so soft it could barely be heard over the sound of their breathing. Her lips were surprisingly cool, Philip thought as he took in every micro sensation – and soft, too. Her breath came unsteady after their first contact, shaky against his lips and he took the opportunity to strike. 

Nudging even closer, he kissed her again, this time with pressure that implied his intent as he took her lower lip between his own. Adrenaline spiked through his blood at the friction of her body but a millimetre from his own, so tantalisingly close but not close enough. He exhaled hard through the impatience that screamed for his body to hurry. Unable to maintain his restraint any longer, he rose his hand to cup the back of her head, his fingers tickled by the softness of her hair. He drew her closer, spurred as she exhaled lowly, resembling a moan as her chest heaved against his own. 

Suddenly, the two could not move fast enough. She groaned breathlessly against his lips as he tore at her blouse, revealing the silk camisole she wore beneath. With frantic hands, she pulled at his arms as he took her breasts in handfuls against his chest. He could feel the hard peaks of her nipples through his shirt and he bit back the urge to rip the fabric barrier that barred him from her body. To slow his desires, he dropped his face to her neck, kissing feverishly as he went. 

The scent of her skin was surprisingly sweet, with the eminence of all the brandy they had consumed in the salt of her skin. She had a little mole at the curve of her neck and he spent a while simply admiring it with his tongue. He felt the tension momentarily leave her frame under his hand as he leisurely enjoyed the softness of her skin and the way it contrasted so with the scratch of his jaw. Moving his hands over her curves, he lifted his face back to her. 

Momentarily, he was greeted by a ghostly flicker in her eyes, as though she was distracted by demons that made her want to run, her skin suddenly void of colour. He squeezed her hard and pressed his groin forward with the hope of bringing her back to the present. 

It worked. 

Within an instant, her nails bit into his skin through his shirt, the sharp near-pain triggering the pleasure pulsing through his nerves spike painfully. They battled for dominance in the kiss that followed, both baring their teeth as open mouths fought to be the overriding force. Philip’s impatience suddenly had all the power as he drew back just enough to reposition, pulling her in for a bruising kiss that left the two of them gasping before biting down over her pulse. Their mouths hovered open against one another, even the air they breathed becoming intimately shared. 

They both breathed loudly now, as though they had just run a two hundred metre sprint, but Philip pushed out in front in this race as he hastily made quick work of raising her skirt until it was around her hips, then forcing down her knickers around her thighs impatiently. With ease, he took her weight in his arms as she raise her legs to bracket his hips. 

The warmth of her body around him made keeping quiet an incredible challenge, one he only just managed, as they heaved in the shared oxygen between their touching, open mouths. 

_Yes,_ was all he could think as they began to move, feverishly and _wantonly_ against the unforgiving oak door. _This is what he had needed, what they_ both _needed._

From a stance such as this, with his body encased in hers, it was hard to think… but he distinctly recalled long afterward wondering why on earthhe had waited so long. Convention, be damned. 

* * *

**V. E. Claythorne**

 

Finally. 

_Finally._

 This was the only thought she could formulate as Philip finally took her, pushing into her body as he braced against the door. His mouth was hot, leaving what felt like searing marks on the skin of her throat as he nipped the sensitive skin there with every thrust. 

The most dangerous thing about sex with Philip Lombard, Vera soon learned, was that nothing was ever enough. He pushed and pushed her hard against the wood and _all_ she wanted was for him to push _harder_ , until she had bruises in the shape of his fingers and the grip of his hands. He nipped her skin with his teeth and it took everything in her not to _ask_ him to _bite._ He could have her over and over and they both knew she would still awake with unappeased appetite. 

Philip was not _just_ a sinner…but a sin, too. He personified all seven of the traits that were considered sinful in humans, which was the better reason of many as to why what she was currently doing was probably an incredibly foolish idea… 

Either way, that didn’t stop her, because fear of being reckless and foolish never did. 

_“Philip,”_ she breathed desperately, her mouth moving against the skin of his temple. She bucked her hips as he increased his pace, the white-hot pleasure that spiked through her nervous system causing her to bit down on her lip and almost break through the skin. A uninhibited groan against her before she could stop it and at that Philip lifted his head.

_“Shh,”_ he hushed, sucking her bottom lip between his own. “They’ll hear us – We don’ want them to hear us, Vera.” 

She marvelled at how he managed to formulate a full sentence, never mind in a voice so seemingly unaffected. Trembling under the onslaught of his punishing pace, she whimpered. _“Please,”_ she begged. Only ever during sex would a man here her beg, and even then, the occasion was rare – so rare she could not recall exactly when the last time was that it had occurred. In this moment though she cared little for appearances. “Philip, _please_ – I – I _need – more –_ “

She did not have to elaborate. The smug Irishman knew. With ease, he used his strength to carry her the few paces to the bed, dumping her unceremoniously there. Before he could continue, an idea struck her. As he made quick work of ridding himself of his shoes and socks so that he could then remove his trousers fully, Vera shuffled back to the headboard and away from him. Slowly pulling her camisole over her head, wriggling out of her skirt and knickers, she enjoyed the view of such a powerful man shaking with adrenaline as he practically ripped his own clothes from his body. Now clad in nothing but her stockings, she gazed at him with hooked eyes, taunting him with the sound of her nylons as she rubbed her calfs together. 

He truly was a wonderful specimen of a man, slightly olive with the effects of the summer sun and naturally toned with the muscles of a man whose occupation required him to be nimble and fast. She cast an appraising eye over him, admiring the strength in his broad shoulders and arms, when suddenly she remembered something: his Mark, the one she had caught a glimpse of that day he’d paraded around in a towel. There it was, tucked into the curve of his bicep. It left her feeling somewhat cold. How _could_ it be that Philip was one of them, and not like her?

“C’here, Vera,” he beckoned tersely from the end of the bed before she could get chance to pry at it, uneven on his feet as he gaze was now locked on her bare breasts. Hers, in return, didn’t stray much higher than his hips as she admired his intimate anatomy without shame, attempting to distract herself from the the momentary unpleasant thoughts of the Mark on his arm.

“Or _what?”_ Stretching out like a cat, she raised her leg, grazing his heaving bare torso with her pointed toe. With the caution of a tamer training a lion, she traced a tauntingly slow straight line down between his pecs and over his toned stomach until it nudged the raging erection that stood to attention. 

With a growl that resembled a caged wild animal, he grasped her foot in his painful grip – the look on his face almost murderous. “Or I’ll come over there and _take_ what I want.”

At his angry, arrogant statement, she rose her eyebrows as if to be surprised, but secretly she was thrilled. Cheekily, she grinned to herself and sighed, pretending to be unaffected by the looming dark Irishman’s presence. “Rather an arrogant comment for a man so high and dry,” she giggled in a whisper, her hand skimming over her own navel, knowing he was watching. 

She didn’t get chance to peek at his expression, because suddenly he was over her, pinning her hands to the bed. His grip was so robust that it bit into her skin, but she felt herself breathless regardless. With force, he pushed her onto her front and took her body again, except this time, she was even more restricted, pinned the mattress. Exasperated, she groaned and bucked against him, desperate for the friction. He chuckled darkly in her ear before biting it, only antagonising her further. 

“Philip – _please_ , move! – “

_“s’a rather arrogant plea for a women so high and dry…”_ he husked, imitating her as he grinned against the skin of her neck. 

Angry now, she tightened her core muscles hard, smirking as he winced into her ear. _“Move,_ you _arsehole, or_ I _swear_ to fuck – !“

He barked out a delighted laugh at her bad language, though there was little sound from him as he caught himself. Instead, she felt the internalisation of the chuckle against her back, the vibration spreading through her body as it did through his. The sensation filled her with an overwhelming desire to spend all day, every day trying to make him laugh. _“There_ she is! The Vera I always knew y’were…” Chuckling darkly into her ear, he moved not an inch, nibbling her earlobe as he whispered with a chuckle. “Certainly no lady!”

She thrust back in retaliation and acceptance of his comment, setting him into a punishing rhythm that left neither of the two able to last much longer. As sweat beaded at her hairline and the back of her neck, Vera took pride in the sounds Philip was beginning to let slip through his quiet, controlled exterior. His groans were but whispers, but she heard them, _felt_ them against her back; the knowledge that she could install such a response in such a man leaving her feeling more powerful than any previous man ever had. He used his teeth more and more as he grappled with control, trying to hold off his inevitable end. She knew she would have evidence of his presence on her skin for days to come, looking almost like a savage attack, but she was hardly one to mind. 

In fact, if she were to die in the next few days, she liked to think she would at least take with her the evidence of her one, final night of liberation. 

As she finally met her end, spirally into an abyss that was such sweet agony she could hardly bear it, she found she could not halt the sob that bubbled up her throat, stuffing her face into the pillow beneath her. 

“ _Fuck_ – Vera – “ Philip breathed in a strangled whisper as he followed, his muscles twitching long after they stilled. She wanted to grin at the way he said her name, how it fell with such desperation from his lips, but she had not the energy to do so.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, because for a while, they remained in the position their exhaustion had left them in: Philip’s heavy weight pressing her into the mattress, the hair on his torso tickling her back. She twitched with every micro movement, Philip’s hands soothing up her sides and down again in a attempt to sooth her. His stubbled jaw scratched at the back of her neck as he kissed where he had burrowed into her hair, the movements soft and tender in comparison to all that had just occurred. 

They both knew they could not bask in the serenity of that moment forever and, of course, Philip was the one to break it.With a heavy sigh of satisfaction and heavy hands appreciating her curves one last time, Philip trailed a kiss or two down her spine before lifting himself off of her body. As she remained unmoving, he shuffled around for something on the bedside table. Silently, he offered her a cigarette, but she shook her head against the sheets. 

This was the first time she was to witness Philip enjoying a post-coital cigarette and as the smoke billowed slowly from his lips, as though they had all the time in the world, she decided it was one of her favourite sights to see. Lifting her hand, she smoothed it over his calf, adoring the feel of the smooth hair under her palm. The muscle contacted under her touch, perhaps to get her attention. 

Vera noted her hands were trembling, her _whole body_ was, in fact – _still_. Tremors of pleasure resonated still as she tried to catch her breath, muscles spasming of their own accord with every breath. She could not remember the last time sex had felt like that, the last time it had been… actually _fun._

She almost wanted to say the words aloud, not quite believing it to be real. She had just had sex… and _hadn’t_ seen a soaked, ghostly vision of Cyril in her peripheral vision… _Every_ other time she had tried to have sex since Hugo’s rejection and Cyril’s death, she had not been able to finish, having been far too frightened by the image of the dead little boy lingering over the man’s shoulder. 

With Philip, she’d not only _finished_ , but she had been her old, sultry self again. 

However, like chasing a rainbow, once she reached the end the majesty she had found disappeared faster than the chase had begun, leaving her wondering if it had been real at all. 

With a sudden realisation, she froze, staring unseeing at the pale blue wall across the room. It _couldn’t_ be! Could she _really_ have become to attached to Philip that sex with him now frightened off her demons?

“Vera…” 

His tone was light, unaware for a moment until he felt the tension in her hand that still touched him. Instantly, he suddenly leant over her and lowered his face with a furrowed brow, as though inspecting one of his beloved diamonds; like she was an objection for his admiration. _“Vera?”_ His voice was a cautious whisper now, but still it resounded through her like the beat of a four foot drum. 

Tightening her hands into fists in the sheets, she burrowed her head away from him. _It can’t be him!_ she inwardly screamed sorrowfully. If _Philip Lombard_ was the only one who could drag her into the light, if he was her salvation, then what on earth was she to do when the chickens came home to roost?! _No._ It simply could not be! She could _not_ be so attached to a man who _killed_ for work and pleasure and was unapologetic, even _smug,_ about it. She could _not,_ most importantly, bear the thought of being attached to a man who could so easily disappear and never speak to her again. 

She had never been under any delusions that such outcomes were a district possibility, but never had she considered that she would reach this point, that she would poised herself precisely in harms way… and all originally _simply_ in the name of a good fuck. 

“Hey – _hey!_ Vera!” He called for her with increasing urgency. “ _Hey!”_ As she struggled to remain hidden with her thoughts, Philip pulled her up from her hiding place beneath the pillows. He held her face in his large hands and lowered his eyes to hers, so she was unable to look away. Her eyes were wide as they took in his expression. He wasn’t angry so much as he looked… _concerned,_ his dark eyes pinched at the edges _._ “Stay with me,” he whispered as she continued to gaze at him, bewildered, still grappling with the panic her thoughts had brought her to. 

Her breath must have been coming thick and fast, because he suddenly braced a flat palm over her breast, where her heart thudded beneath. “S’alright, Vera. No one will hurt you! It’s jus’ me.” 

She slammed her eyes shut, not being able to bare the apparent compassion in his eyes. _It’s a lie!_ she wanted to scream. _I can’t want you around, because you’re lying! You_ kill _people! Just like you’ll kill_ me _if I rely on you._ Tears began to clog her throat, though her eyes remained dry as the mantra of her childhood returned to her: _I can’t rely on anyone._

“I – “ With trembling hands, she pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets until she saw stars. “ _How_ can you say that?” she whispered. “I don’t know who you _are_!” His hands were hot around her wrists, so large that his fingers met at the other side. _He was so strong,_ she realised at the touch as he pinned her to the bed, his insistent husking lilt washing over her, though she could hear nothing more than a cacophony of nonsensical murmurs. He was too _strong_. He could break her arm, her _neck_ , so easily, she mused. Why hadn’t he yet? He was a killer, so surely he would, once he was done with her? _He could so easily ruin me…_ she realised. _Just when I’ve found myself again, he is going to_ ruin _me._

_“ – Vera! – “_

“You’ll ruin me,” she breathed aloud in a daze, wishing he would stop touching her. Abruptly, her words came with a feverish tempo and she felt as though her own brain had no control over them. “You’re Marked and you’re a killer and you – _you_ – you made them go away – You made it all better – _better_ – but – _but_ – I _can’t_ rely – not with _you_ – you’ll _ruin_ me – “

“Shh, Vera – _Stop_ it – Calm down – They’ll hear us, Vera – C’mon, _shh_ – ” She was in his arms now, somehow, her face held hard against the warmth of his bare chest. She could feel the solid beat of his heart against her ear, like a thudding, taunting siren call. She lay rigid in his hold, unsure and confused. “It’s the _powder_ , Vera. It triggers paranoia, tha’ s’all. Stay with me.” Lowering his face, she was surprised to find he pressed kiss after kiss to her lips, none of which possessed the animalistic hunger of his previous affections. 

“You’ll hurt me,” she found herself whispering, more to herself than to Philip, whom now she barely acknowledged now, suddenly exhausted. “ _Of course_ you will.” 

“No, no, Vera – I won’t.” His hand bracketed the side of her face as he smiled at her, as though finding her comments amusing all of a sudden. “I have no reason to hurt ya’…and besides that, I’m not _him._ ” She went to open her mouth, to ask him just _how_ and _why_ he knew about Hugo, but the words didn’t come so she stared at him dumbly. 

“Oh, Vera,” he sighed complacently, his eyes seemingly alight with knowing. “It may as well be written all over your face,” he elaborated softly. She groaned under her breath, accepting that she would never be able to hide a single detail from him, leaving her feeling drowning in a sea of truths in which she had no lies to keep her afloat. 

She accepted his kisses after that, letting them trail down her throat and further, over the curve of her hip. His hands smoothed over her skin slowly with the reassurance of a lullaby and it made her sigh almost mournfully. If _only_ it could _just_ be _this_ …

“How do you do it, Philip?” As his insistent kisses covered her face, she dug her fingers into his shoulders, her question suddenly feeling urgent. “Fight off the darkness?” 

As he anchored her to the present with the burn of his gaze, the moment of silence seemed to stretch for hours. When he did reply, Vera felt her soul tether to him all the more and she could little more than brace herself for whatever consequences it may bring. “I don’t,”he whispered, smiling into the dark.“I _wear_ it like armour.” 

“Lombard! Lombard! _Lombard!”_

The sound of Blore shouting for Philip from down the hall caused them to halt in their tracks. He was banging hard on Philip’s bedroom door, where he evidently assumed the Irishman would be, calling for him with a frantic urgency that instantly fell over the two lovers like icy water. Within a second, the warmth and unnerving security of Philip’s arms was gone as he threw himself to the foot of the bed and pulled on his trousers, bar-underwear, and his shoes. Picking up his shirt, Vera noted his chest still shined with perspiration as he threw open the door and began buttoning it out in the corridor. Hastily, she wrapped herself in the bedsheets and grabbed the gas lamp.

As the Detective hurried toward them, he seemed unsurprised by their sharing of a bedroom, as he simply eyed her for a moment before anxiously speaking. “It’s him!” he urged, his face contorted in fury. “It is _Armstrong_!” Philip seemed doubtful, because suddenly Blore was speaking again. “He left the house – I saw him!” 

Slowly, Philip turned to her, just managing to button halfway down his shirt as his eyes fixed on her. His forelock was in his eyes again, as it always seemed to be in times of ruckus and her fingers twitched to touch it. Did he not have the urge to push it out his eyes, she wondered?

“Lock your door, Vera,” he instructed pragmatically as he went to button his shirt further. “And put a chair against it.” 

Just like that, he was off. She watched him stalk away with his usual air of authority as the policeman followed behind, struggling to keep up, before hastily backing into her room and doing as he had told her. Despite the lock being secure and a chair against the handle, she felt chilled with fear and unease. She should probably sleep, she knew that; sleep deprivation would do her no good, but she found she couldn’t. She could not sleep when Armstrong could pounce at any moment. If he was indeed the killer, then he was _clever._ None of them had suspected him, with his _ridiculous_ flustering and whingeing. Who _knew_ what he was capable of?

Shivering, she curled her knees against her chest where she sat, attempting to quash her own imagination as it began painting pictures of worse case scenario after worst case scenario: Blore and Philip, both bloody and cold, dead on the wet ground outside the house, leaving her _alone_ with the murderer _._  

No, sleep certainly was not an option. Instead, she slipped her camisole back on and sat down on her bed, poised with her gas lamp, ready to use it as a weapon if needed… somehow.

 

As it transpired, that would not be necessary. As dawn broke, there was a speedy knock at the door. She was so on edge it made her jump. 

“Vera! It’s us!” came Philip’s hushed voice from the other side. Instantly, she scrambled to unlock the door and found an _even more_ dishevelled and weary looking Irishman on the other side, breathing heavily. She was not much of a hugger, never had been, but in that moment, as he stood so angry and powerful, so _alive,_ she had to stomp out an _unbelievable_ desire to embrace him hard. Instead, she dropped her eyes in uncharacteristic bashfulness, backing into the room to let him in. Blore, evidently awkward at being left with two so intimately acquainted, lingered at the threshold.

“He’s _gone_ ,” Philip muttered frustratedly, seating himself on the edge of the bed next to her heavily. “Fuckin’ disappeared.”

“He ‘as to ‘ave been the one,” Blore interjected. “‘ow else would ‘e just… _vanish,_ like that?”

Vera swallowed, suddenly thrown back to when _she_ could have so easily vanished, that day, in the sea. She had _pretended_ to almost drown at first of course, but had found she did such a convincing job as the lifeboat drew near that she half considered she may accidentally manage it before they got to her. 

These days, such an oblivion felt like a strangely welcoming idea. 

“We’ll find ‘im, Vera,” Philip suddenly reassured from her side, a hand coming to hold her at the elbow, his hold sure and hot to the touch. She turned her hand and looked at where his skin scorched hers, wondering how he did that; how he always _knew_ when her thoughts were going dark. 

“Well, with a mercenary and a Police officer, I should hope so too!” The mirth in her voice was forced, and none of the three managed more than a upturned lip. With a deep breath, she forced a look of renewed determination. “Right, now, get out – both of you.” Beside her, she pretended not to notice how Philip rose an eyebrow at her in amusement. “ _Go!_ I need to get dressed.”

 

* * *

  **P. Lombard**

 

 

The end of it all came quickly after they realised Armstrong was gone; after four became three versus one.

The day began as all on the island had after the murders started: they scavenged for food from what was left, but didn’t eat it for their nerves would not let them. At the dining table, with the light of early morning shining painfully through the windows, the three of them attempted to talk out their best course of action. Philip did not even attempt to eat, or drink, and instead took drag after drag of a fresh cigarette, the only way to calm his continuous adrenaline. 

He had predicted he would not be able to think of little other than sex with Vera once it finally happened. For an incredibly short period of time, this prediction had been true, as he had laid beside her replaying their frenzied encounter back to himself, despite the fact she had been still nude beside him. 

The bliss of it had not lasted long. He witnessed Vera’s ghosts come back to her before his very eyes. She went from as relaxed as he had ever seen her to rigid as an iron rod, her eyes wide and unseeing as they had been the night before when she had stood watching the rain. The side effects of the cocaine exacerbated whatever demon came back to her, he had no doubt, as her speech had been disjointed and frenzied, her body shaking, as she seemed convinced he would ‘ruin’ her. That being said, it did not make the demons that made an appearance any less legitimate. It had given him quite the insight into Vera Claythorne’s darkest thoughts and fears, which he was incredibly grateful for. 

He had stored what she had said in his mind as he went to take her again, to be analysed later, only for the panicked knocking and shouting of Tubs to dissipate the heat between them instantly – the sound of the man’s squawking enough to put any man off even the most _beautiful_ of women. 

Mostly though, it was Armstrong running off into the night that buried all thoughts of such intimacies deep behind a wall of concentration, as Philip was hit with a new wave of determination and drive to fight for survival. 

He had never liked the medical man, but as the three went to drink tea in the dining room, no longer bothering to change their clothing before they descended the stairs – (with the exception of Vera who donned the clothes he had ripped from her) – he found himself mulling over the likelihood that he had been behind this Island of psychological torment. Tubs definitely thought as much, he was _convinced_ of it, but something in Philip’s gut told him there was more to it than that. After all, while Armstrong _had_ always been suspicious, he had still been a complete wet leaf of a man, pathetic and ridiculous. 

The more he considered it, in fact, the less likely it seemed. Philip _knew_ people and there was _no_ way Armstrong could have falsified _that_ level of idiocy. No – Philip would have seen through it if he had.

Whomever took his gun, the killer no doubt, had returned to it him that morning, leaving it for him on his bed. This confused him, as he had no idea why they would take it, shoot one man and then _give it back._ He hated not knowing, but stashed it into the waistband of his trousers either way. Upon arriving in the dining room, he sat down beside Vera at the opposite end of the table from the Englishman. This was a conscious choice on Philip’s behalf, intentionally implying of their unity _._ He wondered if the other man noticed. He told the two of them he had now got his gun back. This did not go down well with Tubs. 

“It was _just_ on your _bed?”_

Not in the mood to be doubted, Philip glared at him and ground out his reply. “It was just. On my. Bed.”

The man’s suspicion then turned to Vera. “Well, ‘ow do I know you didn’t just plant it last night?” 

“Because if Philip had had the gun before now, he would have taken it with you when you went after Armstrong, wouldn’t he?” 

_Ever the pragmatist, aren’t you, Little Liar?_ he thought. 

“Well, you coulda’ crept out your room and planted it! There was no one ‘round here to hear you.”

“I had my door locked in case Armstrong came back!”

“Armstrong disappeared – _thin air!”_ Tubs hissed. “We split up, when we went searching last night, din’we?”

_As if the bugger is really going there._ “Yes, we did,” Philip replied in a deadpan voice, already tired of where this conversation was headed.

“Did you find him?” The Englishman’s eyes were narrow. “Chuck him off a cliff?!” 

_“No, Tubs,”_ he admonished, feeling as though he was speaking to a child. “I didn’t find him and chuck him off the cliff, did _you_?” 

“No,” he replied hastily, his eyes seeming to shine with unshed tears. “No.”

“Red herring,” Vera interrupted softly, as though speaking to herself. “‘Four little soldier boys, sailing out to sea – a red herring swallowed one, and then there were three’. _Red Herring_ … Armstrong’s still alive.” Just like that, Vera seemed to be one step ahead again. Taking a deep breath in, Philip exhaled and nodded to himself. She really _was_ good with riddles. Clever Little Liar…

“It’s always _you_ who works it out…” Tubs sneered accusingly. “‘as been from the off…workin’ it out… Armstrong said _that_ , a’all.”

Philip did not like his tone. It was accusing, with a menacing edge, as though he might just charge at Vera any moment on the off chance his haphazard theory was right. It _wasn’t,_ of course – he was a truly _lousy_ judge of character for a Detective – but Philip knew that the majority of these accusations were being made out of desperation and fear. The poor man just wanted to live. 

That being said, he couldn’t be allowed to carry on like that, talking to Vera in such a threatening tone when all she was evidently doing was _helping_ , so Philip gave him a hard, cold stare from his seat across the table, before speaking up. “It’s been a _long_ night. You’re letting the booze and the powder do the thinkin’ for ya’, Tubs.”

He called the policeman ‘Tubs’ one too many times it seemed, as the man suddenly descended into a spirally near-meltdown – one which looked as though it could lead to him acting irrationally. Philip though was too fucking _bored_ with this situation to care.

“ _I told you to stop callin’ me that!”_

“ – Your first name’s _William_ , isn’t it?” Placing her hands flat on the table, Vera’s entire face softened visibly, as she intentional interrupted the two men’s ego battle. This, Philip realised, was her ‘harmless’ look, the one she deployed to get people to open up to her. “Do you get ‘Will’ or…?” 

Vera’s question halted the man’s hysteria and intrigued Philip no end. Through narrowed eyes, he watched her closely, fascinated by her ability to manipulate any situation round to one in which she was in control _without_ the other person even knowing it. 

“ _Bill,”_ Tubs replied, his original aggressive train of thought forgotten. Philip watched as slowly Vera’s questions towed the man from his intended line of conversation to one that instead left him blubbering over his allotment and who would look after it if and when the killer caught up with him. 

That is when Philip discovered, momentarily discounting the more-than-satisfactory sex, why he _needed_ Vera Claythorne: she _knew_ people too, but in a way that had always been a mystery to him. While Philip saw through the masks people so carefully crafted to disguise their true selves, Vera had instead mastered taking those masks and donning them as though they were her own. To do so, she therefore had mastered the ability to mimic human behaviour and emotions and use them in a way Philip never had, and never could. 

Once one realised this, it didn’t take a genius to come to see that Vera was much, _much_ more than simply a talented liar. 

 

They decided not to remain in the house any longer, all itching not to feel trapped like fish in a barrel. Philip suggesting they light a fire on the headland, that way someone might, with all the luck, come and see what the flames were for. Hastily, Vera made her way to the kitchen and stashed food and items to burn in tied up sheet. Philip was busy inspecting the below stairs hallways. Feeling watched made his skin itch and his heart pound and left him feeling the rage of a caged lion. Quickly, he made him way toward Vera, eager to get them both away from danger. “Let’s go!” he hurried cooly, marching through the kitchen, knowing she was following him without looking. “C’mon, Tubs – let’s go!” 

It wasn’t until they were out on the headland that either of them noticed Tubs had not followed them. 

“Where is he?” Vera asked while Philip was distractedly looking out to sea. 

Immediately, he wanted to grunt in frustration, knowing that the man had most likely fallen into whatever trap the killer had hoped his paranoia would lead him into. The poor man would not last long at the mercy of such a clever killer. Philip tightened his grip on the revolver, feeling time slipping away. He couldn’t just go back without a word, though – Vera would follow. The house was dangerous. She shouldn’t follow. “Stay here!” he ordered at her, pointing the butt of the gun at her to emphasise his point. “ _Don’t_ follow me!” 

He should have known that she would. 

* * *

 

_**W. E. Blore [William, Edward]** _  
_DOB:  May 19th, 1904_  
  
_Place of Birth: Hackney, London, England_  
_Status: Unmarked_

_– Deceased –_  
_August 12th, 1939_

 

* * *

**P. Lombard**

 

 

She found him standing over the policeman’s fresh corpse, breathing hard with complete and utter fury. He had drawn the gun on her in a flurry as she approached, his fingers twitching on the trigger with uncharacteristic frenzy. He lowered it immediately upon realisation that it was Vera. He was _maddened, incensed_ by the idea he had missed Armstrong by just a few seconds. What was _wrong_ with him?! How had he lost his edge so?! 

He gazed down at Tubs and felt unexpected pity weighting his heart at the look of utter hopelessness eternally etched at the last expression on the man’s pale face. “ _Poor Tubs,”_ he muttered as he stalked away, trusting Vera was hurriedly follow. _His dying thought was most likely of his little allotment._ Such a thought made Philip uncharacteristically vengeful. _The bloke_ may _have beaten a queer to death, but he did not deserve this. He cried over tomatoes, for fucks sake!_

Philip gathered Vera behind the protection of his body and guided her out of the house, his mind’s logic finally prevailing again. _Draw him out, Lombard. He cannot hide in the open._

_“The tide’s changing,”_ Vera huffed as she braced her knees at the cliff edge to catch her breath, having ran far ahead of his down the hill. He held back simply to observe her, really. She was _fast._ He scanned the view for any signs of life but found none. Resisting the scream in frustration, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the revolve by his side _._

“Philip…” 

He distantly noted Vera calling him, but his mind was racing as he desperately attempted to obtain the upper hand. _Where are you, you fuck?_ “Philip – there's something down there!”

Turning, he could see she was right, spotting the distinct outline of what could only be a figure down on the rocky shore. Together, they cautiously made their way down onto the beach. 

Ignoring the slickness of the rock face, Philip climbed toward the suspected hidden perpetrator and found what he had suspected, and somewhat dreaded. It was Armstrong, long dead and covered in seaweed. 

He closed his eyes as his patience near shattered. _He had been right all along. There was someone_ else _on this island! The killer had never been one of them! There had been_ ten _figures, after all._

As Philip had made his way back onto the sand, hoping Vera did not notice the way he almost slid down the rock most clumsily, he made the first of two fatal errors. Vera begged that they not leave Armstrong that way, that they take the doctor’s body back to the house, place it there as they had done with each before him. Her voice had trembled and her eyes had shined with tears. It had been impossible to deny her, truthfully, if not because she was sincere, then for the sake of his own patience. 

He went to fire a retort of annoyance but silenced himself before it escaped, his mouth twisting into a bemused scowl as he made his way to retrieve the body. 

This was when he made his first mistake and he turned his back. 

Suddenly, there was the chink of metal and the click of cocked trigger. Philip, in complete and utter astonishment, narrowed his eyes. Faced with the barrel of his own gun in the hands of the woman inside whom he had had his _cock_ not twelve hours before, Philip Lombard was, for once, completely caught off guard.

Perhaps her meltdown had been much more for of a reflection of her mind’s state than he had previously thought. He knew she was not the killer, that much would be eternally obvious… but as he looked into her pale face, her shining eyes ringed with black, he knew he was staring into the face of absolute, bleak and all-consuming fear.

* * *

**V. E. Claythorne**

 

 

She wasn’t sure why she grabbed the gun from Philip’s waistband, or why she then pointed it at him, but at the sight of Armstrong’s soiled corpse she knew that the Irishman before her was now the only viable answer to all the Soldier Island killings. 

It was as though suddenly a light had illuminated what should have been clear to her from the beginning. 

Her breath came thick and fast as she had turned away from him so he could not see the panic on her face as she attempted to formulate her next move. After all, if he _was_ indeed the killer, she would have but a few seconds to act.

Therefore, she had deployed her most trusted weapon: playing the soft, fearful woman, whom arrogant men like Philip could not help but underestimate. It was in their nature to do so, to not only believe but _encourage_ such misogyny as it allowed for them to maintain their power. 

Her body was jarred with the adrenaline of fear as her hand shook as she snatched up the revolver.

It was Philip! _It had to have been Philip!_ He was a confessed killer; a cold, cruel man. He was honest, yes, but clearly was one to kill before being killed. Perhaps he _had_ been the one to throw Armstrong over the cliff! He had _clearly_ always despised him. It just made sense! Now there was no one left but her to confront him for it. Before her was a man who would do whatever it took to be the last man standing; ‘ _they had something I wanted’,_ as he’d said. 

She stepped back as he advanced, her stockings imprinting in the sand. Gasping for breath, she grunted in frustration. “It’s _you_! It’s all you – _all_ of it!”  

“ _Vera_ …” His voice had a threatening edge, as he held out a steady hand towards her. “Give me the gun.”

“You’re going to kill me!” she denied hurriedly, stumbling further back.

As he climbed down onto the sand, his hands held up by his head, she felt doubt begin to creep into her veins. _“No,_ no… _I’m_ not gonna’ kill ya’, Vera, but there’s someone else on this island – !” Philip seemed on the edge of his tether, as his tone became resigned, sounding almost… _disappointed._

Gripping the gun with two hands, she gritted her teeth against his tone, a mix of intimidation and patronising disbelief that she would be brave enough to pull the trigger. “ – Oh, there’s _no one else!”_ she shouted, furiously. 

“There’s somebody on this island and they’re going to kill us both if you don’t give me that gun,” he continued despite her outburst. 

“There’s no one else!” 

“Listen to me! _We’re being hunted!”_ He shouted, his words bouncing off the tall rock faces around them. “ _Right now_ we’re being hunted!” She had never experienced him raise his voice before, not even so much as a little, so perhaps it should have occurred to her that it was a sign of his insistent honesty.

As it was though, her fear blinded her from such evaluations. 

His face ticked with his impatience as he threw up his arms in furious gestures. _“I need the gun!”_

Feeling her courage begin to wane, she fidgeted on her feet, watching him raise his hand and beckon to her with cold, intimidating eyes. His dark brows were low as he glared and she felt her pulse jump at the menacing expression. “Give it to me.” Slowly he advanced toward her with an outstretched hand. She quickly jumped to back away. “Vera…” The way he said her name was meant to entice, she knew that. It was meant to remind her of all the now shared, the intimacy between them. It was _supposed_ to make her give into her weak womanly disposition in the hope of maintaining his affections.

“Give me the gun,” he murmured, quietly now. He was but two foot from the barrel of the gun when he held out his hand to take it. The second time, his face was pinched with the most subtle of impatience. “Give me the gun, Vera.” His eyes were softer now, his hands now out straight either side of him as though he was trying to look as saintly as Jesus Christ himself. 

She _so_ wanted to give in, for what he said to be true; for the two of them to get out of this damned place together and that be the end of it. 

Somehow though, she already knew this was but a fantasy.

Within the next second, Philip gentle approach lapsed as he went to grab the barrel of the gun. There was a struggle, but the damage was done. Upon reflex, the finger that had been poised on the trigger for minutes squeezed and the gun fired between them. 

 

They both jumped back, but while Vera did so in fear, _Philip_ did so in shock. 

 

In gut-wrenching horror, Vera realised that their struggle had resulted in a bullet in Philip’s left arm, the blood beginning to seep from a single red spot on his bicep. She felt dizzy at the sight of it, knowing it had been her doing, because she’d never even held a gun before. She _should_ have felt glad. She _should_ have felt smug, but instead she simply felt guilty, as the demons of the day she let Cyril die awoke and began to bite at her heels and cackle at her descent into anarchic chaos.

His face went from astonished to furious and he started toward her. Upon instinct, she went to shoot him again, driven by self preservation. 

What she did not anticipate, as her hand shook and her breath came in pants, was that there were no more bullets left to shoot and the burning itch she had first occurred on the dock would suddenly return with a vengeance. 

With a whimper, she fidgeted, attempting to ignore the alien pins and needles sensation as it set the skin of her lower torso and breast afire. She tried the gun again, only for yet another pathetic click to sound with no bullet expelled and so, wearily, she dropped the gun to the sand. Falling to her knees, she gasped against the sensation of almost electric nerve activity under her skin, no longer able to ignore it. 

_Well, that was it,_ she thought. He was going to kill her and there was nothing she could do. She knew his strength. She could not win against a physical fight against him. 

Groaning in pain of his own, Philip stumbled forward, ignorant to her discomfort. “You _bitch,_ ” he growled toward her as he chest heaved soundly, his hand bracing his wound. “What was that for?! _I’m not the one who’s going to hurt ya’,_ _woman!”_ She watched him dumbly as he worked about inspected his arm, surprised when he did not advance toward her. 

More than anything, she was struck by the disappointment that filled her when the Irishman did not move to kill her. She had expected it and had half become used to the idea in the minute or two in which she held his gun and watched the fury dance in his eyes. 

“You are so completely and utterly _impetuous_ sometimes, Vera. _How_ many times do I have to tell you?!” He went to pick up the gun and opened the barrel. With a sigh, he tucked it into his waistband and glared at her. “You will not die at my hand, but now, thanks to you _wasting_ that last bullet in my arm, we may _both_ die at the hand of whomever _is_ huntin’ us!”

Taking calm steps toward him, she looked into Philip’s dark eyes and could see that he was being earnest. He stood tall despite his wound, the mighty column of his neck shining with a slight sweat. She considered how close they’d been not twelve hours before, when they’d been skin to skin, body to body, and that was all that had existed… It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Truthfully, in the last few days she had grown so weary of life that she had not only _anticipated_ death but wished it that whatever fate the Island had in store for her would simply hurry up and arrive. This was not to say she was not absolutely petrified of death – _of course_ she was – but somehow, if death was of her own choosing, it did not frighten her half as much as it filled her with intoxicating _relief_ , in the same way that one might look forward to bed after a long day. 

“Are you really _that_ mistrusting? I’ve never once lied to you and I don’t intend to start now. Don’t you think if I wanted to kill you I’d have done so already?!” he continued. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, Vera, and I _meant_ it.”  

With a wistful smile, she admired him one last time. “I believe you,” she replied, not quite believing how he managed to be so brutal yet also so soft. In the corner of her eye, the ghost of Cyril beckoned her from the break of the surf. The weight of her sins was heavy on her shoulders and her chest that suddenly she was exhausted. “But perhaps you should have.” 

He cocked his head and frowned, seemingly confused, not at all distracted by his bleeding wound that he sneezed in his hand. Wearily, she turned away from him and began to walk into the waves, where she could see Cyril in up to his middle, smiling, as though welcoming her home. 

In that moment, she knew she wanted to end her _own_ story. 

“Goodbye, Philip,” she murmured as she turned, no longer paying attention to what he may say.

 

 

 

 

She heard him shout after her, but she was a fast swimmer – much faster than he was. He would never catch up with her – not in this strong tide. Either way, she was almost entirely certain he would not run after her anyway. It wasn’t as though she was ever anything to him anyway, other than a shag and an ally, and it wasn’t as though he could not survive on his own. If anything, he was better off alone. 

Perhaps it had been cruel to shoot Philip and leave him on the beach like that, to leave him with no assistance to stop the bleeding, to leave him there to watch her die… but perhaps she _was_ cruel, she reasoned. Perhaps that was why she had never been Marked and why the decision to lead Cyril to his drowning had come so easily to her. She had been cruel in life even in pursuit of death. 

He had been somewhat kind to her though, Philip Lombard. For that, she found herself hoping that he would not still be waiting on the beach when her body washed ashore, that he would not attempt to swim to her, for he may just drown too. 

To swim meant Philip would have to attempt to balance and survive whilst burdened with the weight of the darkness he confessed he wore as armour, day after day. Such armour was forged not in steel but in the _blood_ and _tears_ of tens, if not _hundreds,_ of dying men, women and children and such cruelty therefore ladening his soul with a greater weight of any metal forged by man. He did not seem to consider this armour to be anything other than a choice, something he _willing_ donned for self preservation, but if this was accurate, Vera wasn’t too sure. After all, in the last twenty four hours, she had seen a side to Philip Lombard that had been much too human for him to realistically be able to withstand such armour alone. 

As she grew tired, she gave into the strength of the waves, suddenly internally tickled by the irony of her end: after all, the same waters that were once the scene of her gravest decision, that had once left her terrified of all water, now lured her very soul with the promise of one final escape. _How the foolish have fallen,_ she thought.

Vera herself had nought armour left to sink her, letting her sins fall away with the dropping of Philip’s gun. 

She knew now, she held a power that Philip did not. _She_ was no longer fighting the darkness.

She gave herself over to the elements until she could no longer feel the string of the salt in her eyes or the burn of her lungs as they screamed for air. Upon arrival at her death, Vera was swamped with a blissful serenity she had never felt while she was living. Before her, little Cyril was smiling through the murky water, the increasing clarity of his face indicating that the offering of sweet oblivion now lay within her reach.

As salt water filled her mouth, her nose, her lungs, Vera Claythorne reached out, letting out what was left of her one final breath…and she took it.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll see y’all in the epilogue..... maybe....... if you're super kind to me a leave a review. 
> 
> Pretty please? :)


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